Arkham City
by JenniferNapier
Summary: Joker is sick. Maybe even dying. Harley Quinn hardly ever leaves his side.  A short drabble written on 10/01/11. Takes place in-between the video games Batman: Arkham Asylum and Batman: Arkham City.


**Arkham City**

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><p>The neon lights of neighboring buildings flickered outside the warehouse window. I was keeping a sharp eye out, seeing some of the henchmen in the courtyard, talking and quarreling as they waited for something to do. They wanted to go out and rave, spill blood, and do what they do best. I ordered them all to stay here. I told them to wait, our time was coming soon. Truthfully, our time was long over. We were laying low. We weren't the top villain in Arkham City. I placed all the henchmen outside to guard the building from Batman.<p>

I stayed inside to guard Joker. He was so sick. He stayed in bed all day, trying to sleep through the coughing fits. He hadn't walked for a week and he was staying alive through IV's, not having an appetite for any actual food. He could barely sit up, there was no way he could stand any chance against Batman like this. So I guarded him. If Batman did find us, if he did knock down our army of henchmen like they were nothing but flies, he would **_not_** get through me. I would make sure he didn't even have time to blink if I saw him break through that door.

The other thing was that Joker had a reputation. I guarded that as well. I didn't let any of the henchmen see him, they all spoke to me if they had any problems. Rumors were going around and I tried my hardest to douse them. Joker was not weak, he was just as strong as ever. He was planning something, waiting for the right moment. He was not sick. He was not dying.

But he was sick. He was so, so sick. He was so weak. His shallow breaths were wheezing as he lay in his bed, covers pulled up over his bony shoulders. I made sure he was never cold, but without those blankets he most definitely could not maintain his own body heat. His heart was already having trouble supplying his body with enough blood, and every morning and night I had to take a few needles full of my own to make sure his IV was always full of the red liquid. I was grateful that I was a suitable blood donor for him.

Every day I sat on the bed with him. Every day I stayed by his side and told him what was going on outside this dark little room. Catwoman had been spotted a few times, rumors were hinting that Robin was hovering around, Riddler had something up his sleeve, etc.

He would appear to be asleep, but I knew he was listening. He would ask some questions, most of the time rhetorical, then he would mutter and giggle and then he would grow sad and audibly wish he was out there playing the game. I would stop tears from bubbling up as he smiled and thought out loud of all his brilliant tricks and schemes.

He would close his eyes and have that faint toothy grin on his face, dreaming out loud of delivering all that pain and anguish that the Bat deserved and had never received.

I would always nod and smile, again stopping tears from running down my face. "I promise puddin', one day it will happen. I promise."

I always fear that I won't be able to hold up that promise. But sometimes I feel so much anger at Batman for doing this to him, I have no doubt in my mind that he will pay. I will give him such hell if Joker dies.

He would cough harshly, sounding as if some ravenous monster was ripping his lungs right out of his throat. When he was done he would laugh hoarsely, catching his breath again and smiling. I would get a hot wet rag to soothe his throat, hoping that it did some good.

Sometimes he would grin and ramble on about past memories, all about Batman. He would get so excited and happy. Sometimes I had to stop him and calm him down so his heart didn't beat faster than it could handle. He would lightly complain about how I was so worried over him and that I never listened, then he would fall asleep and I would stare at him and stroke his sleeve over his thin arm.

Without me he'd die. I knew that and I was afraid every day. Every single day I watched him with tears on the brink of escaping my eyes, knowing how thin of a line there was between life and death for him. I was afraid to touch him. I was afraid my embrace would break his bones. I was afraid my kiss would block too much of the precious air he needed. He was so fragile, no matter how much he protested that he was still strong.

I was crying as I looked out the window now. Sometimes I blamed myself. If I had stopped him from using the Titian Toxin on himself, he would be just fine right now. Healthy and strong and able to act on his playful spirit. I didn't like the idea to begin with but I let him do what he wanted. I regret that so much now.

"...Harley." He called quietly from the bed. I was at his side in less than a second. "I'm here puddin'! I'm here."

He smiled as he looked over at me. "What day is it, Harl?" I checked his pulse, finding comfort in its regular beat. "The first Friday of October, puddin'."

He looked at the ceiling for a long time, and I wondered if he heard me, or even knew I was there. Finally he breathed in and murmured. "Let's go outside."

"You're not strong enough, Joker…" I whispered, choking up. I expected him to justify that he was as strong as ever and complain about my worrying again, but instead he sighed, almost as if it was in agreement. After a few more minutes he looked at me again. "Please Harley... I haven't been outside... in so long."

He couldn't even finish a sentence without taking a few breaths in the middle of it. But I couldn't deny him his freedom any more than his sickness already had. "Alright." I was taking a big risk. He was taking a big risk. But he wanted to go. He didn't want to wait in that miserable bed until he died.

I slid my hand behind his back and helped him sit up. I held his IV pole as he used my shoulders to support his light weight. We both slowly made it down the stairs and outside in the damp back alleyway.

He breathed in the air, smoky from cigarettes and cars and garbage fires. His lungs adjusted to the polluted air better than I feared. I let him stand by himself for a while, and when he leaned back too far, on the brink of falling, I held him up.

He turned and put his arms around me as my tears flowed out onto his wrinkled orange vest. "I love you..." I sobbed, forcing myself to hug him gently, as if he was feeble as a butterfly.

"I know." He whispered hoarsely. He laughed, his chest quivering with the effort against my head. "You never let me forget!"

I rubbed his back, feeling all of his ribs and his sharp spine. "I'm so sorry this happened to you. You never deserved this." I sniffed. "You deserve to be strong and healthy, puddin'."

"It's not so bad." He stroked one of my ponytails and released a smile. "I've got you, don't I?"

"Yes, of course." I've never held back a sob so strong as this one now. "Of course."


End file.
